Taken by the Cowboy (3 page)

"He's wanted in three
states!" someone hollered. "You just killed the fastest draw this
side of the Mississippi!"

What did they think she
had done? She hadn't shot him! And what did they mean—
the
fastest draw this side of the Mississippi
? This wasn’t
Gunsmoke
, for pity’s sake.

"Wait a minute,” she
said. “Seriously. There’s been a mistake.”

Just then, a deep voice
cut through the commotion. "Can I ask what's going on in this
little gathering of yours?"

Unable to discern from
where the voice had come, she looked all around through the
darkness.

"Ma’am? I asked you a
question." The crowd parted, clearing a wide path for the inquiring
man to approach. Jessica was finally able to get a glimpse at him,
although the brim of his black hat shadowed his face from the dim
lantern light spilling out of the saloon.

He moved slowly toward
her, and she was taken aback by how handsome he was, with dark
hair, blue eyes, and a fit, muscular build.

Closing the distance
between them, he pushed his open black coat to the side. His
purpose was clear as he rested his large hand on an ivory-handled
revolver holstered to his leather gun belt.

His trousers—also
black—were snug and worn at the knees, and his boots were spurred.
Jessica hadn't actually looked at his feet, but as he walked, the
sound of the spurs jingling alerted her senses to everything about
him.

Someone moved aside,
and a gentle stream of light reflected off the shiny star pinned to
the man's lapel.

It read: Sheriff.

Thank God
.

He angled his head and
spoke in low voice – sort of like Clint Eastwood, but not exactly.
"Ma’am, you look a little distressed. Can I be of some
assistance?"

His observation, which
couldn't have been closer to the truth, melted all her cool bravado
in an instant, and she was so relieved, she could have grabbed hold
of his shirt collar, pulled him toward her, and kissed him square
on the lips.

"Yes, you can,” she
replied. “I’m so glad you’re here. Thank you for coming so
quickly."

He chuckled softly, but
the smile in his eyes was cold and calculating.

“I wouldn’t thank me
just yet,” he drawled, as he wrapped his big hand around her arm
and tugged her closer. “Because by the look of things here, missy,
you’re gonna be spending the night in my jailhouse.”

The crowd murmured
approval, while Jessica glanced up at his ruggedly handsome
features, bronzed by wind and sun, then cautiously lowered her eyes
to the gun at his hip.

He shook his head at
her, as if she’d been a very naughty girl, and said, “Tsk tsk tsk,”
while she paused to think carefully about the best way to handle
this.

Wetting her lips and
clearing her throat, Jessica managed to muster some dignity from
somewhere inside, and proudly wiped her mud-splattered cheek with a
finger.

Without a word, the
sheriff reached into his pocket and handed her a crisp white
handkerchief.

“Thank you,” she coolly
replied, while she proceeded to clean her face and wipe her
hands.

"She just killed Left
Hand Lou, Sheriff!” someone said. “Imagine, a pretty little thing
like that—"

"I see what happened,
Matthew," the sheriff said, without taking his eyes off her. "But
I’d like to hear the whole story from the lady."

With calculated
decorum, Jessica finished wiping the mud from her hands and passed
the kerchief back to him. He shoved it into his coat pocket.

"Is that the gun that
killed this man?" he asked.

"Yes, sir, it is,"
Matthew replied as he bent to pick up the revolver at her feet.

Proudly he raised the
revolver for everyone to see, and there was no shortage of more
'oohs' and 'ahs' from the crowd as muddy water dripped from the
barrel.

This was getting worse
by the second.

"Hand it over,” the
sheriff said to Matthew. His inquisitive eyes studied Jessica with
intentional detached interest as he took the wet revolver, shook
out the excess water and shoved it into his belt.

"You haven't told me
your name yet," he said.

“Jessica Delaney.”

“Well, Miss Delaney,”
he replied, “I'm pleased to make your acquaintance. The name is
Truman Wade.” He tapped his thumb against the ivory handle of his
gun.

It was clear he held
the silent crowd's respect. Or maybe they feared him. Judging by
the way Jessica felt at the moment, it was probably the latter.

“Are you going to tell
me what happened here,” he asked, “or am I gonna have to ask the
dead man?”

Jessica turned to
examine the corpse behind her. "You don't understand. There's been
a mistake."

The sheriff's quiet
laughter made her clench her jaw in aggravation. Wondering what the
joke was all about—when a dead man lay two feet away—she faced the
cool lawman again.

"You mean to tell me,"
he drawled, "you shot this man square between the eyes by
mistake?"

The crowd jeered until
Sheriff Wade cast his steely gaze in their direction. He turned
back to her, an eyebrow raised as he waited.

"No. That's not what
happened—"

"So you did it on
purpose, then."

She shook her head,
struggling to play it cool, and decided a casual chuckle might, in
fact, be apropos. Glancing around at the nosy spectators, she tried
to smile and said, "No, of course not. I don't even know how to
shoot a gun. Honestly, I can explain."

His gaze slowly raked
over her from head to foot. He scrutinized her long wet hair, her
belted jacket, her skinny jeans and pointy-toed red shoes, which he
stared at for quite some time. "I think folks around here will be
mighty disappointed to hear your aim ain't as sharp as they think
it is."

Jessica bit her lip and
pushed her hair behind her ear. “Sheriff Wade, I don’t appreciate
your tone. I know my rights, and I want my phone call.”

“Phone call,” he
repeated, as if it was the most ridiculous thing he’d ever
heard.

Fixated on the subtle
sexuality hidden beneath the Sheriff’s half-crooked smile, Jessica
glanced around at the others. Logic and self-preservation told her
to be quiet and patient until she could speak to a lawyer.

"She said she was
trying to kill a June bug," Matthew offered helpfully. “Whatever
that is.”

Wonderful
.

The sheriff eyed her
with curious interest. “Must have been an awfully big bug.”

A number of onlookers
mumbled with amusement.

Oh sure, this was all
downright hilarious.

"Matthew, see that Lou
gets looked after." The sheriff's smile vanished, and it felt as if
the temperature dropped. "I think you better come along with me,
Junebug. We're going to have a little chat in the jailhouse."

Jessica's stomach
lurched with dread as he took hold of her arm and led her down the
street, granting no opportunity for debate. They marched quickly,
and it wasn't easy keeping up with the sheriff's long strides. He
had to be at least six feet tall. But everyone seemed tall next to
her tiny five-foot-four inch frame.

"Would you mind
loosening your grip, Sheriff?” she said haughtily. “There’s no need
for police brutality. I’m not resisting arrest."

He let her go, but kept
one hand on his weapon at all times as if he half expected a gang
of outlaws to ride up out of nowhere and break her free.

Finally, they reached
the two-story jailhouse, and he escorted her through the front door
and into a jail cell.

“Hey, you can’t put me
in here.”

Before she had a chance
to say another word, he swung the bars shut in front of her face
and locked her in.

Jingling the key ring
in his hand, he gave her a quick look before hanging it on a hook
across the room.

Jessica, reeling with
frustration, gazed around the one-room jailhouse. She had expected
to see a telephone, a computer and maybe some florescent lights,
but even the law office was straight out of another century.

At that instant, her
frustration turned to fear. "I need to speak to a lawyer," she
said, gripping the cold iron bars. "And I need a phone."

"No phone here I'm
afraid."

It was one brick wall
after another. Her stomach muscles clenched tight, mirroring her
desperation.

The sheriff sat on a
messy, paper-covered desk, folded his muscled arms at his chest,
and crossed one ankle over the other.

Growing increasingly
anxious by the minute, Jessica pinched the bridge of her nose. She
had to ask the question that had been niggling at her ever since
the accident—the question she hadn’t
wanted
to ask—and she
needed to ask it in a way that wouldn’t make her sound insane or
delusional. "Sheriff, what’s the date today?”

“June 29th.”

She cleared her throat
and felt some relief, because June 29th was the date she woke up
that morning. “And the year is, of course....”

His dark eyebrows drew
together. "Eighteen-eighty-one." He stared at her.

Jessica squeezed her
eyes shut against the panic, and felt a crippling need to lie
down.

"I need to speak to a
lawyer," she said again, more shakily this time.

“Are you all right,
Junebug? You look a little pale.” His voice conveyed some concern,
as if he finally noticed how unsettled she was.

She sat down. "No, I’m
not all right. I was in a car accident. I almost died today, and I
had to walk here from the wreck. And now I’m in jail! And don’t
call me Junebug."

He leaned forward in
his chair and again looked down at her jeans and shoes, everything
crusted in mud. "I didn’t hear about any train wreck.”

“No, not a train wreck.
A
car
wreck.”

He frowned.

Please tell me you
know what a car is
.

"Really, you have to
believe me,” she said. “I'm not sure how I got here. I can't
remember what happened exactly, but I don't belong in this place."
She swallowed hard over the panic and tried to beat it down, but it
was no use. Her heart began to beat very fast.

Sheriff Wade opened a
drawer, pulled out another clean folded handkerchief, stood up, and
passed it through the bars. “No need to fret, darlin’. You’re safe
now.”

Her pride bucked wildly
as she glanced down at his offering, then she lifted her gaze to
meet his and spoke with a hard edge of confidence. “I don’t need a
hanky, and I’m not your darlin’. What I need is to speak to a
lawyer, and I won't say anything more until you bring me one."

He watched her for a
moment. The fierce lines around his eyes softened, then he turned
back to his desk. "You stay put till Deputy Dempsey gets here. I'll
see if I can fetch Mr. Maxwell. He won't be happy about being
disturbed after hours."

"Is he a lawyer?"
Jessica asked, her hopes igniting.

“Yep.” Without another
word, Sheriff Wade turned and walked out.

* * *

Truman walked out of
the jailhouse and stood alone on the dark, damp street. His
shoulders heaved as he breathed in the cool night air.

He had an uneasy
feeling in his gut. The woman he just tossed in jail… something
wasn’t right about her. It wasn’t merely the strange things she
said either—like talking about a car wreck.

Whatever that was.

No, it was something
else. She had an odd fear in her eyes that didn’t seem to go with
her tough and plucky attitude. He wasn’t sure how to describe it,
and he was even less sure where it was coming from.

All he knew was that
he’d felt compelled to leave the jailhouse to get her that lawyer
she wanted- even though she wasn’t in any trouble. She hadn’t done
anything illegal. All she did was bring in an outlaw who was wanted
dead or alive, and now he was dead. Case closed.

Then why the hell was
he holding her? he wondered uneasily, as he stomped down the steps
to fetch Maxwell.

Jessica sat on the cot
inside the tiny cell and tried to stay calm while she figured
things out. What exactly happened to her when she blacked out in
the car and woke up on the prairie? Did she really travel through
time, or was this some freakishly elaborate hoax?

She looked around the
room, searching everywhere for something that didn't belong in
1881. An electrical socket hidden behind the unpainted wooden
table? A prop made of plastic, perhaps?

Unfortunately, after a
futile search, she had turned up nothing. Everything seemed
perfectly old fashioned and authentic—the tin wash basin, the desk,
the WANTED posters on the wall.

Sitting back down on
the cot, she ran her hand along the scratchy wool blanket beneath
her. When she squeezed the mattress, the straw crackled inside.

Just then, the door
opened and a young man entered the office. He wore a cowboy hat,
brown trousers, and a beige shirt with a navy vest. Clearing his
throat, he tugged at his collar to loosen it. He couldn't have been
more than eighteen.

"Howdy, Miss. I'm
Deputy Dempsey. They say you killed Left Hand Lou."

Jessica let out a sigh
and wondered when this nightmare would end.

"Lou's been wanted for
a year now," Dempsey said. "Sheriff Wade's been after him, offered
a reward for his capture, dead or alive. I guess that'll be dead in
your case."

Jessica stood and
walked to the bars. "I'm going to get a reward? Is that legal?"

"Sheriff Wade nailed
them posters up himself."

She decided it would be
best to play along. "What am I doing in jail then, if I brought in
a wanted man?"

"The sheriff's pretty
thorough. I reckon he'll be askin’ around to confirm who you are.
Just to make sure
you’re
not wanted by the law, too."